


Honey

by Maiden_of_Asgard



Category: Loki - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, Frostbite Fic Universe, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Masturbation, POV Loki (Marvel), Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_Asgard/pseuds/Maiden_of_Asgard
Summary: In which Loki Laufeyson, Rightful King of Jotunheim, resists the sweetest of all temptations.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/In-Unga, Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 25
Kudos: 269
Collections: Flurries - The World of Frostbite





	Honey

Loki Laufeyson trembles.

Is it due to the fearsome giants crowding the room around him, glaring daggers with their blood-red eyes? Is it the foreboding that has hung thick over his shoulders ever since he first set foot in the palace of Utgard? Is it the knowledge that Odin Allfather will likely have him executed if he discovers Loki’s deception?

Well,  _ no. _ At present, Loki Laufeyson trembles because the mortal he’s brought with him on this dangerous endeavor - his little  _ pet, _ so fragile and hotheaded - is rubbing against him in a way that is incredibly difficult to ignore. Worse, said mortal is completely oblivious, drunk on some jötunn concoction that he should’ve never allowed her to taste. 

Loki Laufeyson thinks that he is paying for his sins. The Norns have become increasingly creative. It is a very cruel, mortifying sort of torture.

The mortal twists in his lap, trying to better position herself under the edge of his cloak. Loki grits his teeth and ignores it as best as he can, exchanging thinly-veiled insults with one of the giants sitting near his new half-brother.

_ Though, _ Loki muses,  _ Býleistr isn’t exactly new… He’s been right here for centuries.  _ Loki simply hadn’t  _ known _ that he had any half-brothers, because Loki hadn’t known anything but lies. 

His mind is trying to follow five different trains of thought at the same time. In itself, this isn’t odd, but current circumstances test his focus. He shushes his pet, catching her on the verge of calling him by his name once again. If she does, and if the giants see how hopelessly gentle he is with her, he’ll be humiliated. All eyes are on him. He can’t afford any mistakes.

With any luck, she’ll slip up and say his name later, once they’re alone. He’ll scold her for it, of course; she shouldn’t become too familiar. He is superior to her in every way. Still… he looks forward to hearing his name on her lips. 

He’ll never tell her that, but it is the truth. 

The mortal watches his lips move as he speaks. Loki is acutely aware of it, and given his position at the table, everyone else is likely aware of it, too. The rapt attention he sees when he glances down at her makes him feel…  _ something. _ He doesn’t know what it is. Pride, perhaps?

He knows that he is handsome. He knows, in fact, that the human is attracted to him, though he doubts that attraction extends to the form that he currently occupies. 

Her fingers clench around the belt that runs from his shoulder to his waist. Loki’s throat goes dry. He takes another sip of the damnable wine himself, hoping that it will somehow dull the sensation of her nails scraping against his lower abdomen. She seems to be fascinated by one of the markings that curves around his hip and dips low— 

Loki moves her hands back into her own lap and puts a bowl of honey-soaked fruit in her hands to occupy them. His cheeks are burning. It is fortunate, he thinks, that he is so excellent at masking his expressions.

“Lo—”

He pokes one of the dried fruits between her lips. “Eat, pet,” he says sternly, and then he nearly groans aloud, because the wretched creature’s cunning little tongue slides against the pad of his finger, sending shivers all the way down to his bones. 

One of the twin girls in Skaði’s service is staring at him from her seat, her eyes almost comically wide. He wishes that the circumstances were different. If things were less dangerous and dire, he’d enjoy the opportunity to make everyone around him terribly uncomfortable. 

Loki allows his mind to drift from the conversation, imagining how delightful it would be to rankle Odin by holding his mortal pet in his lap during one of their grand banquets in the palace of Asgard. In this indulgent daydream, he wraps his hand around her jaw, tilting back her head as he pours a sweet sip of wine between her lips. Her beautiful neck is on full display, delicately encircled in a thick collar of gold and emerald. He’d be able to feel her pulse thrumming under his thumb… and he would freely delight in the knowledge that she’d gladly fall into his bed with him when the feasting was done.

It is a pleasant daydream. It is also pure masochism on his part to dream it, for there is nothing in all the Nine that could possibly distract him from his arousal now, not with her tendency to rub her bum against him. He  _ cannot _ believe that she does not notice. Is she really that intoxicated, or is it all of the layers of clothing between them? Perhaps she is more cunning than he’d thought, choosing the most inconvenient moment possible to torture him with her womanly wiles. 

_ Damn her and her womanly wiles.  _

“ _ Psst _ . This is important,” she whispers into his ear, and before he can respond, she twines her arms around his neck… but she doesn’t say anything more. She merely giggles. 

Loki glares at her. 

“Leather pants don’t seem comfortable,” she says, “but you look really hot in—” 

He stops her with another bite of fruit. She sucks on his fingers. He feels as if he’s about to combust, right there at the head of the dinner table. That  _ would _ be a sight, wouldn’t it? He takes a swig of wine and clears his throat to cover a groan. He’s never been so hard in his entire life.  _ No, you are exaggerating,  _ he tells himself.  _ It has only been too long since you’ve been inside a women, and these mortal girls are—  _ her tongue swirls around his finger  _ —Damn.  _ He can’t remember what it was that he’s been trying to convince himself of, but he  _ can  _ remember, in excruciating detail, every glimpse he’s gotten of her naked body. 

He reclaims his fingers with a wet pop, making the mistake of meeting her eyes as he does; she has a sleepy, impish expression, and he cannot look away.  _ Bedroom eyes.  _ His mouth waters.  _ A taste couldn’t hurt, could it? Whims of the king, after all. She is mine, and I can do with her as I wish… _

He’s halfway convinced himself to pin her to the table and give the Jötnar a show they’ll never forget when the cruel temptress lets out a very contented, soft sigh and promptly dozes off, her cheek pressed against his chest. Even that small bit of warm skin is enough to make him crave closer contact. Reality dashes his fantasies into the dust, but the imagined scene of her spread naked on the table, drizzled with honey and candied fruit, is one that he’s certain will be burned into his brain for an eternity. 

He has to get rid of her. She might as well have the word  _ ‘liability’ _ printed in grand, scrolling script across her forehead. She’s warm, soft, and as durable as wet paper. It’s already been a huge waste of his energy and efforts to simply keep her alive. It wouldn’t do to actually become  _ fond _ of the silly creature. 

_ You can rut without involving fondness and feelings, though,  _ the lascivious parts of him whisper.  _ You’ve certainly done that often enough, in the past. Be done with it. Make her beg, make her scream your name. Wring every last drop of pleasure from her, discard her, and move on with your life. She’d never satisfy you, anyway - at least, not for long.  _

It would be far better to turn his attentions elsewhere. The giantess Skaði is certainly a beautiful option, though he’d really rather delay any potential political entanglements that might come from indulging her flirtations. He hasn’t tried his hand at seduction in some time, and he cannot imagine many Jötunn maids swooning at his feet - and it would be a far fall if they  _ did _ swoon at his feet, for most of them, considering the significant height discrepancy. He does enjoy challenges, and seducing a towering, angry giantess would certainly be a challenge. 

On his lap, his mortal’s heartbeat slows to a pleasant, steady drum.  _ Consider your options later,  _ he tells himself. He cannot enjoy the thought of other women with his mortal pet clinging to him. It is uncomfortable, though Loki cannot imagine why.  _ I owe you nothing,  _ he sourly thinks, subtly adjusting the cuffs of her jacket so that her grasping, delicate fingers are shielded from the cold.  _ Utterly hopeless. Falling asleep at a feast of giants, practically on the table. If she’d been alone, she’d have made such an easy snack for any predator wandering through the snow.  _

Loki did not come to Jotunheim with the intention of playing savior. 

He drinks more wine and refocuses on the conversation. Fárbauti is more receptive to his rule than he’d expected. It would seem that her concern for her sons is genuine, at least, so that gives him a great deal of leverage. Things are going…  _ decently.  _ He’s actually quite proud. When he’d told the mortal that he intended to talk his way into a throne, he’d only half-believed that it was possible. Of course, there’s still much to be done, but he likes to think that a few decades from now will see him pulling the strings behind the Nine Realms like an all-powerful puppet-master. 

Yes, he’d certainly enjoy  _ that. _

He turns his frustrations towards insulting and arguing with his hosts, who seem fond of reminding him that he is unusually dainty, that his mother is dead, and that the ruins of the very city where he now sits having supper are only ruins because of him.  _ Yes, yes _ , he thinks.  _ Loki ruins everything he touches. I believe I get the picture.  _

“Well, yes, Skrymir,” he says as the conversation grows more rowdy, “I  _ do _ enjoy bathing in the blood of my enemies - but it is truly laughable that you believe you lot are ready to conquer any other realms. Look how quickly you’ve capitulated to  _ me.” _

When he can take no more, he enlists the aid of one of the twin daughters of Geirröðr to carry his mortal back to his chambers. He imagines that gives a more regal impression than if he strolled through the halls with her limp body strung across his shoulders, stinking of sweet wine and unfiltered lust. Delegating the task to someone else allows him a small bit of dignity, at least. 

He gets his mortal into bed at long last. She is like a leaden weight. It is a powerful battle to get her out of a few of her heaviest layers of clothing, and nearly impossible to wrestle her boots from her feet. Her feet are so cold when he does manage to remove her boots that he can feel it through her socks, so he briskly rubs some warmth back into them before they freeze. 

Loki groans. When he acquired a human of his own, he’d naïvely assumed that she would wait upon him hand and foot, yet here he is, quite literally tending to her hands and feet. He raises her foot higher and higher into the air, wondering if she’ll waken, and when he lets it go, her leg flops back down onto the bed. She doesn’t stir. Loki’s collection of sighs grows yet again.  _ Dead to the world. My very own sticky-fingered little gremlin.  _ It’s a perplexing situation. No other pet he’s ever kept has been so complicated - though, none of his childhood pets could talk, and none of them were pretty mortals, either. What is he supposed to  _ do  _ with her?

He retrieves a bowl of water and props it on the hearth, and when it has warmed, he carries it to the bedside. He hesitates; he  _ could _ leave her painted from the feast, but her markings are already smearing, and it doesn’t seem as if it would feel pleasant to have it caked on her skin all night long.  _ It will make a mess of your bed, too,  _ he reasons.  _ That is a good excuse, isn’t it? _

Loki is no stranger to the art of a delicate touch; gentle precision is necessary for many spells, and it’s proven a useful quality with women in the past, too, albeit in a very different manner. He dabs the cloth carefully on her cheeks, frowning in concentration. If she wakes up and finds him scrubbing the makeup from her face, he might actually die of mortification.  _ Careful, careful.  _

He kisses her forehead, secure in the knowledge that the mortal will never know. She is going to feel absolutely _dreadful_ in the morning, and as far as Loki is concerned, she entirely deserves it for making his life so difficult. That doesn’t do anything to wipe away the urge to comfort her and care for her, however, and it’s an urge that he’s quickly coming to resent. _Well, Loki,_ he thinks, _make up your mind;_ _do you want to care for her, or do you want to fuck her?_

_ Both. Norns, I want to do both.  _

Loki retreats into the other room and settles on a large cushion by the fire. It is a poor substitute for her warmth, but he thinks that he will go mad if he has to lie chastely beside her. He stares up at a tiny crack in the ceiling’s layer of thin frost. 

Alone - well,  _ relatively _ alone - at last, he decides to indulge himself by playing out the daydreams he’d begun at the dinner table. Asgard is a more pleasant setting, he decides. Jotunheim does not scream  _ ‘romance.’ _ He closes his eyes and imagines her sitting on his lap at the feast; it’s late in the night, long after the king and queen and all of the older, fussier courtiers have retired for the evening. Young warriors and flirtatious, pretty goddesses dance and drink and make ribald conversation, and Loki pictures his mortal pet blushing as he grabs her hips and grinds against her heated center. 

_ “Your Highness—” _

He shushes her and feeds her another honeyed slice of peach.  _ “I shall be inside of you soon, my sweet,” _ he tells her in a low growl, his lips close to her ear.  _ “My sweet, wanton pet.” _ He kisses her neck, pleased by the excited, shy squeak that escapes her throat as he leaves a love-mark on her skin. A quick glance over her shoulder finds that they’ve attracted a few wandering eyes, men and women whose envy is plain on their faces. Loki revels in it, licking the tender spot beneath her ear in a display of benevolent possession.  _ Mine.  _

On his cushion in his cold chambers in Jotunheim, Loki makes himself more comfortable. He presses two fingers to his lips, tastes the honey still lingering there, whether it’s real or only imagined. His other hand swiftly unbuttons his long jerkin so that he can unfasten his trousers, and when he begins to stroke himself, to  _ indulge, _ he’s imagining that they didn’t make it all the way to his chambers from the feast. No, they’re tucked away in a shadowy alcove in the palace, and his mortal has her fingers in his mouth, stifling his grunts of pleasure as she touches him; Loki wouldn’t mind if they were caught by a passing servant, but she would, and so he humors her, even in this daydream. He unclasps the thin chain supporting the low neckline of her dress, and she bites her lip.

He’s had enough of her teasing; their coupling is quick, but they both enjoy the thrill of it, the potential of discovery, knowing that more languid, careful caresses await when they eventually reach his bed. His cock can hardly bear the gloriously tight, wet heat. She wraps her legs around him, her dripping arousal soaking his trousers and her tangled skirts as she begs him for  _ more.  _ Loki bites down on her fingers when he comes - and in reality, it’s his own fingers that bear the brunt of stifling the sounds of his climax. 

His head falls back against the cushion as the tension seeps from his body. The daydream dissipates. In its wake, Loki feels mortified, cold, and terribly, terribly alone.

He cleans himself quickly, methodically. He splashes ice-cold water on his face, hoping that the chill will cool his ardour and the painful burning in his veins. He sees his reflection in the water, the crimson eyes staring back at him. His guilt intensifies; she’s only human. It’s wrong, he thinks, to imagine her being  _ intimate _ with him.  _ With this.  _ He feels more monstrous than usual. 

No matter how greatly she vexes him, Loki feels responsible for her care. He cannot promise that she will always be pleased with his  _ manner _ of caring for her, but as long as she is healthy, he is certain that he can endure her displeasure. He could not endure the cold, bitter sort of resentment that would grow inside of her heart if he took her -  _ used _ her - then set her aside to placate his eventual royal consort. 

He can’t have everything. 

Reluctant, yet eager, he returns to his bed of furs. Loki curls himself around the mortal’s body.  _ So fragile, _ he thinks, though he knows she’d surely argue. He strokes her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, and when her head instinctively turns into his touch, something inside of him cracks. It’s sharp and raw, and Loki buries it deep.

He resents how well she sleeps in this foreign land, this world so full of danger and strife. He resents the way she sighs as she burrows against him, a tiny crease marring her brow. She looks like she’s irritated, as if he’s terribly wronged her by taking so long to join her in his bed and provide her with a body to cling to - because the mortal  _ clings. _ He wakes up with her clutching him tightly in the dark of the night, her leg sometimes slipping over his. 

Oh, how he  _ resents _ those moments, most of all. 


End file.
